Welcome to the Land of Pleasant Shiggy

Hash Trash #1016

So, yesterday morning I laid tile for 3 hours after a full day of shoulder-wrenching ceiling painting and backbreaking tile laying the day before and figured, hell, since Velvet, our slight, delicate little girlie girl was haring, I would go to the hash and join my friends in a relaxing jog along the 2 miles of flat fields of flower you might expect from such a hare. Even our newest hasher, 2 month-old Sam Periodic-Diddler, figured she’d have a go.

So, I get there late and am greeted by a bunch of hashers running around in circles (a good sign for a hasher in my worthless condition) thru a field of mcMansions and back to the start 5 minutes after the, uhh… start and have time to tie my shoes, feed my dogs and wax my legs before trail is reclaimed (by the ever clever MiniBrew) and we were off into the woods, down a seriously steep ravine and surrounded by perfect shiggy. Minutes later, however, we were called on into the street again by the hasher formerly known as NAMBLA.

I jog along, silently cheering the lack of body-snatching shiggy, confounding checks and other BAH3 trademarks that usually leave me in blissful pain for weeks after, when we’re thrust into another great piece of wood w/spine-tingling hint of what’s ahead [wsh?] My broken down body starts to panic.

Up and down and more effing up n down and F_ck me! WTF man? I didn’t sign up for this…this…this awesome BAH3 torture. It was beginning to look just like Airhead & Sloman’s gig 2 weeks earlier only hurty.

At the mountain top beer check, we’re terrified by another talisman of what’s to come, Nasty Boh! Yep, those rumors of a beer-less hash were proving too true. We’d have nothing but water or skank-infused water to choose from. Grrr.

Next, a true trail arrow sends us all off running exactly 45 degrees and 300 yards east of true trail. In fact, if not for the collective eyes of the three-trick trio (Grannypantz + Don’t ask) spotting a splash of flower on the opposite side of the Legend of Boggy Creek swamp, we’d still be there. Unencumbered by the relentless screams of 3-trick Jr., err…JustAmanda, the Mayor and I’dRatherVomit lead the pack into the most gorgeous swamp I’d ever had the privilege of getting thoroughly creeped-out by. What was more amusing, watching 3-trick Jr. flail in utter horror and fear or watching Pony Boy (her daddy) laughing hysterically at her while snapping pictures of her digging herself deeper and deeper into the chest high, pitch black cesspool teaming w/snakes. Swamp-crossing just met a new high. Honestly, I don’t think it can be challenged. [Ahh hashing!] As for the stink, only my Elsie has ever been covered w/a more horrific nasal-destroying aroma having rolled in decayed carcass and its final fecal evacuation.

Finally, the pack-less-M’OrallyChallenged made it back to the on in where we were insulted w/more Nasty Boh, 25 bags of orange noshes and a litany of other offenses such as: